18 Months Later...Let me introduce you to our fiery redhead

Even 18 months after she busted into this crazy world with arms, and eyes, and lungs wide open, I still cannot find the right words to describe Emory.   All of the adjectives and adverbs I can think of sound too cheap or cliché to explain who this little girl is.  But, this blog is here to serve as some small documentary for our family, and, while I’m still unable to find the right words for her, she deserves, and often demands, her own place here.  So, here goes nothin'…this is Emory Ryen. 

Eddie and I didn’t find out if we were having a girl or a boy this go around; so, it’s been an adventure full of surprises from the start.  A girl.  With fiery red hair, a scream that reaches octaves mere humans dare to dream of, and the personality to match them both. 

I knew things would be different with two.  I knew that no two kids are alike.  But this one…this one has pushed me to stretch my heart farther than I ever thought it could bear and forced me to find energy and strength even when I thought the tank was far past empty. 

She’s not the easy going, easy to love, snuggler that James is.    And to be honest, we often butt heads already.  But she adds that special something to our family, and (most days) I wouldn’t change her a bit. 

Don’t be fooled by that innocent looking grin or the sweet “tank choo” spoken when she gets what she wants. 

It’s a trap!  She’s  accrued several adorable nicknames so far: Emmy, Em-Em, Little Bit, Lucy.  They’re all fronts.  Facades she uses to hide behind the(much more accurate) nickname James has given her:  Godzilla.

 

She’s confident and strong willed. 

The rough and tumble kind that will tackle you to the ground then sit on your head when you are down. 

She will always show the world how she feels at any given moment. 

And if she wants to knock down the tower of blocks you just spent 45 minutes perfecting, by God, you better believe that baby's coming down like the Berlin Wall. 

 It’s all or, well… all with Emory.  She’s holds nothing back (not even slobber and snot). 

 She’s my handful, my payback for my own stubborn, defiant and quick-tempered personality, my “karma” for every time I rolled my eyes when people told me how good of a baby James was. 

Oh, and did I mention she’s pretty awesome?

She’s the one that sits in the grocery cart yelling “Hi!” or “Hello” or “See Ya” to everyone that passes by and brings a smile to even the grouchiest of faces.  She’s the one that will make the most ordinary things magical. 

She’s the one who will find her brother’s shoes for him and won’t leave school until she gives everyone in the class a hug.  She’ll make sure everyone has a coat on before leaving the house.  And she’s not even 2.

She has her own world, where every animal (and human for that matter) makes the “ROAR” sound (but whispered, not yelled), because that's the funniest of all the sounds and she loves to laugh. 

Where trucks fly with helicopters and baby dolls don’t need clothes, just hugs (and the occasional toss down the slide).  Right now, bedtime seems to be a favorite.  A time where she can lie down after an exhausting day of entertaining everyone around her, and just be.

 
I’m so grateful to have the challenge of learning, from her, so many things there are to know about this crazy life.  Most days it seems like this kid has it figured out far better than any of the rest of us.  I can only imagine that those high pitched screams and shrills will one day turn into the most impressive aria at The Met.  The thrill she gets from tackling unsuspecting victims will one day be a superpower she uses on the first kid in 3^rd grade that dares  to utter the “G” (Ginger) word around her. 

 That girl sure is something.  And I can’t wait to see what it will be.

Turning It Back On!

You know those restaurants with “Make Your Own Salad Bars”? For less than $10 you can mosey on up to a buffet-style counter, grab a plate, and scoot down the line creating your own custom-made salad. It sounds simple enough, right? You begin by laying the groundwork with a little lettuce (or spinach if you’re feeling spicy) then accessorize with any of the abundant choices in front of you. You pile on tomatoes, and cucumbers – your favorites. But wait, there's more!  This salad bar has avocado and red bell peppers, so you add a few to make your salad feel fancy. On down the line you scoot, adding cheese and carrots and mushrooms. Hoping that this custom-made meal will hold you over until dinner, you add a little grilled chicken for protein. Your 4-yr-old loves broccoli so you throw a few on your plate to make him happy. You spot a mix of melon balls and think to yourself, “This is my lucky day!” as scoop them onto the side of your plate. At the end of the line, you add a little shot of salad dressing and reach for the pumpernickel croutons. But, without even realizing it, you’ve put so much crap on your plate that the croutons – the crunch element of your salad, the carbohydrate of your meal, the ingredient invented with the sole intent to add flavor and enjoyment to an otherwise boring lunch – tumble off your plate. Some fall onto the floor, others into the container of ranch. The sophisticated looking old lady in line behind you gives you the stink eye as you awkwardly try to fish the crouton out.

My point?  Even with the best intentions of keeping my salad plate under control, there are always a few freaking croutons that fall onto the floor. I’m one of those people that, even with the best intentions, pile too much crap on my plate and there’s always something falling into a container of ranch – like this blog. But I fished it out, so let’s dive into the craziness that I’ve piled onto my plate since the last time I wrote something.

1. We moved. Just before James’ 2nd birthday we uprooted from our home in the country to a cute little house in town. It’s a work in progress and progress is slow. But it has “character” and memories and eventually a swing set.

2. James flipped on his internal defiance switch – and IT IS STUCK! I’ve seriously considered renting him out to the US government to train various officials how to successfully negotiate world peace. Going to bed at night, getting out of bed in the morning, playtime, mealtime, car rides, what to wear, what to wash, how to wash it, what to read, how to read, almost everything is negotiated these days. It’s exhausting and hilarious but never at the same time.

 

3. I got knocked up…and, as nature would have it, subsequently had a newborn,

 who turned into a toddler in the blink of an eye.

  A red-headed pistol of a girl we call Emory, or Em, or…well, let’s just leave it that. I whole-heartedly believe that this diva was placed on this Earth to rule me. There’s no doubt that she changed me. For the first 3 months of her life there was no setting her down pretty much EVER. You can imagine how much more productive and energetic this has made me. More on this bundle of chaotic awesomeness to come!

4. I got a new job. I’ve never met a pharmacist that doesn’t have a touch of OCD. Most crave some kind of routine. So, it’s funny that when I graduated, I chose a job (as awesome as it was) that had a pretty erratic schedule. We made it work, but Emory (see bullet point three) tilted the scale in favor of a pharmacist position not quite as exciting but closer to home and with a predictable schedule.

5. I am no longer 100% sure I could pick Eddie out in a line up. Not that I expect my husband to have any run ins with the law any time soon, but the man is working out of town more than ever these days! Thanks for the paycheck honey! See you at Thanksgiving…

So it’s kind of been Thanksgiving around here as far as plate piling goes. Lately, life has been so packed full of the good stuff that I’ve let some things (like writing) slip off my plate. But the great philosopher Ferris Bueller was right when he said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around for a while, you could miss it.” So while I’m thankful that I have so many things to fill my plate, I regret not documenting them here – the good, the bad, the ugly. As crazy as life still is for the Foy Family right now, it’s starting to feel normal. Routines are beginning to stick, Em is defining her role as a Foy, James is settling into his big brother responsibilities, and Eddie and I are learning to roll with the punches.

It’s time to stop and look around a bit.

To Sleep Purchance to Dream -- Not a Chance

The toddler bed is slowing killing me: Part I

We moved into a new house back in August and with that switched James to a “big boy bed” – WOOHOO!   This wasn’t necessarily a transition I was excited about.  Eddie and I were among the lucky select few parents that had a child who slept through the night early on and James had grown to love his little crib with all its coziness and security.  On occasion he would ask to get in his crib and just chill for a bit.  He would play in his crib for a good 30 minutes after he woke up, giving me an “adjustment period” to pry my eyelids open (or on a good day shower and dress).  

But over the summer James started using his crib railing as a hand-grip and the crib mattress as a trampoline (as all wild animals will eventually do). So, we decided that when we moved into our new house we would transform James’ room into a big boy room, bed and all (except for the changing table—potty training is still a work in progress but I will save that misadventure for another day).  

 

The first week or so went rather smoothly.  James fell asleep just like he did before and didn’t seem to realize the infinite freedom to roam the new bed granted him. 

A few nights later my parents came over to visit and asked how James was adjusting to his new surroundings.  Little did they know they had just lit the fuse to the biggest what-the-hell-just-happened bomb I’ve experienced since the first time James pooped in the tub during bath-time.  (To save what little pride I now have left and to save James quite a bit of humiliation, I will refrain from ever expanding upon that story).  I can’t fully blame my parents though, because it was actually when I answered, “He’s doing great!  BLAH BLAH, My child is awesome, BLAH. He goes right to sleep just like before,” that the what-the-hell-just-happened bomb exploded.  It exploded right in my face, right before my eyes.  I realized what I had done as soon as the words escaped and while I tried like hell to backtrack and shovel those words back into my mouth the damage had been done and the jinx gremlins pounced. 

 

That next night, our bedtime wars ensued.  When I say bedtime wars think native uprising.  Each night James changes his attack strategy so we never know what to expect.  He started small:  Getting out of bed, pulling books of the shelf and putting them in bed with him to “read”.  Whatever, right?

 Well, a few nights later he upped the ante by opening his bedroom door and trying to sneak out.  He learned this strategy doesn’t work very well in an older home with hardwood floors that creak every few steps.  I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched from afar as the door slowly opened and a single eye peeked out, then a round face followed by a head that first looked to the right, then to the left.  He disappeared back into his room for a brief second then the door swung open and he crept out holding is stuffed frog, Mr. Pickles.  He was smart enough to close the door behind him with the hope that no one would notice he and Mr. Pickles had escaped.  About 4 steps down the hall he saw me and ran back into his room and crawled in his bed.  I may have won the battle that night but the war raged on and the rebelling only worsened. 

Some nights while I’m brushing my teeth or folding laundry James will mysteriously appear at my side –

“I not tired Mommy.” Dammit…how did he pass the creak obstacle?

 “James, it’s late buddy.  Did you try to close your eyes?” 

 “Ummm…I want juice.”

“I can get you some water.”

“I WANT JUUUUUICE!!!” (Translation:  You’re going down lady.)

I go downstairs burned but not defeated.  I pour some water in a cup add a drop of Mio water flavoring and tell him it’s juice. He accepts the water as juice but then makes other numerous requests:  Read a book, sing, brush teeth, turn the light on, read another book, sing more, count all the stars in the sky, take him to Vegas, review the stock market crash of 1921, teach him Mandarin Chinese…

Brushing his teeth is the only thing this child enjoys about going to bed.

Good with going to bed....

Still good about going to bed....

 

One of his favorite moves is to ask to sleep in “mommy’s bed” or “daddy’s bed”.  We always reject the request thus ending all peace negotiations for the night.  A long series of shrill screams, tear-soaked cheeks and cries for the “other” parent (the one that had not denied the request that particular night) then ensues. 

  

Not so happy about going to bed anymore....

He has demanded, “Daddy, get on airplane” on a couple of occasions.  Most likely because he knows I’m the most tired of the 3 of us and with Eddie gone it he can work me down and seize victory at last.

There was somewhat of a lull in the dreaded bedtime drama when Eddie allowed him to carry one toy to bed with him.  This worked well until one night when he decided to abuse this privilege.

He thought I wouldn't realize that he used his beanbag and blanket to cover up the 50
 other toys he tried to smuggle in bed.

 

So I asked him where James was going to sleep...

And this was his response.

So we compromised.

It’s been a few months now since the war began and I am sad to say that we’ve been defeated.  We allow James to carry multiple toys to bed, we attached a night light to his bed and showed him how to cut it on and off so that he can read the stack of books that he also piles into bed, I have sung Jesus loves me 50 times in a row, Eddie has read him more books in one week than the average person reads in their entire life – ANYTHING to keep in him in that freaking toddler bed.

Mickey Mouse...

So OVER Mickey Mouse.

I know, I know – don’t give in.  It’s parenting 101.  But the kid's got my stubbornness and Eddie’s bargaining skills.  Throw those two traits on a toddler that should have gone to bed an hour ago and see what you get--trust me, parenting 101 get's tossed right out the window.  These bedtime battles wear us down, the ups and downs, the guessing what he will say or do tonight.  It’s absolutely exhausting.  I’m absolutely exhausted.  Some nights giving in is our only chance for survival.  

 

 We were hardcore with the crib.  James never slept in the room with us.  When he would voice his disapproval of being put to bed, we stood our ground and didn’t go back (except on a rare occasion).  It was easy for us.  James was basically trapped so the only choice he had was admit to defeat, lie down and go the sleep.  I’m starting to think James was actually using all that time in his crib to plan his rebellion.   

To Be Continued…